Nightmare
by Janriel
Summary: "And he wondered, for one horror stricken moment, if everything he had seen—had done with his very hands—had been nothing more than a dream, just one long, never ending nightmare."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** _The Maze Runner Trilogy (c) James Dashner  
_

 **Title:** Nightmare  
 **Author:** ladyjanriel  
 **Rating:** T for Teen  
 **Genre:** Mystery, Angst, Psychological, Drama  
 **Pairings:** Undecided (if any)  
 **Warnings:** WIP, don't know where it's going

-x-X-x-

 _Previously under the title "Nothing more than a Nightmare," the title is subject to change again when I think of a better one. Slightly longer than the drabble from before. I've got a few chapters knocked down, but I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm sticking it up here as well, but it can also be found on AO3 under ladyjanriel.  
_

 _I'll revisit to edit at a later date. Right now I'm just posting it up to see if anyone's interested on FF. Pairings are undecided for now-if there's going to be any. We'll see._

* * *

 **Nightmare**

* * *

Thomas thought it would all be over the moment they crossed through the flat-trans and into the earthy green of paradise; they could start the world anew. Minho would take the reigns as leader, he could guide the remaining survivors and Thomas would help from behind the scenes, away from the awed faces, the expectant, unfamiliar gazes and the deep overwhelming sense of guilt that tore into his heart with every beat it took.

He thought—had dared to hope—they could somehow move on, finally at peace, away from the stench of death, of blood; away from the terror filled screams of dying people and the agonized desperation of hopeless souls. But most of all, he had hoped they could move away from the sickness that destroyed their very world and the perpetrators who had hoped for a cure behind despairing experimentation.

He went to bed that night with plans for the new world. Where they could build their homes, what materials they can use; organize hunting parties to sustain their numbers—he and Minho were ready to take on a dawn of a new day. The future had never seemed so bright until then.

He fell into a dreamless slumber. A sleep so deep it could have been mistaken for a brethren of death.

He had never felt so peaceful.

When he awoke, it was not to the towering trees of the forest or the melodious singing of the early morning birds. He did not see the comforting green leaves that flowered the trees, he did not feel the prickly, crackle of the forest floor. He did not smell the morning dew in a fresh atmosphere or felt the slight chill of spring.

No.

What he saw was a white, tiled ceiling and the blinding bright lights that surrounded his being. He felt the smooth, rigid surface of a flatbed pressed against him and tight, nearly uncomfortable, restraints around his wrists and ankles.

A bone chilling thought crossed his mind, stilling his strained movements.

Was this…? Had everything…? Was he dreaming?

He eyed the white tiled ceiling, followed the patterns etched in-between every square. He trailed down the pearly white walls, bright and almost painful against his eyes. He caught a glimpse of the ground—just as white as all the rest. He examined the flimsy paper white gown draped over his body, barely enough to cover his skin, but he supposed it did what it needed to. The black, rubbery restrains tied unbearably tight against his wrists was the only bit of color that stuck out in the bright empty room.

He tugged at them, pulled on his legs, the bindings barely moved against his prodding. A few more seconds of feeble pulling forced the truth into his mind—he was trapped, partially naked and in a place he didn't recognize. The first inklings of panic seeped into his veins.

Had they been found? Followed? Was WICKED's destruction another test? Another trial? Was "paradise" just another maze or was Thomas lost in the realist dream he had ever experienced?

He couldn't tell. Everything felt real. The cold, the restrains digging into his skin, the uncomfortable stiffness of the bed—everything felt so incredibly real. He was afraid to breathe, but the burning of his lungs begged him to. He released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and felt the panic ebb away slightly. If this was a dream, then it was certainly a nightmare.

Regardless, nothing would get done if Thomas couldn't free himself from his bondage. Luckily for him, his savior came in the form of an unknown face.

The man entered the room with a soft whoosh of a sliding door. He was dressed in all white, his face a mask of indifferent, lines of age etched into his skin. He stepped into the room on light feet, his shoes barely making a sound against the pale floor. He was a ghost, void of emotion or noise. His presence barely felt like anything to Thomas. He undid the locks against Thomas's bed, releasing his wrists before he moved to his ankles.

The urge to kick this unknown man ran strong in Thomas, but he reigned in his desires. He hadn't posed a threat—yet—and Thomas wasn't sure if it was wise to hurt the only other person who could answer his questions.

By the time he felt his bindings release, Thomas dipped his legs over the edge of the bed. He opened his mouth, hundreds of questions ready to pour from his tongue, but the stranger turned on his heel and left, the soft thud of his steps the only sound he made. Thomas expected the door to shut behind him, leaving him trapped in the luminescent white room. Yet it remained open, the dark stretch of hallway looming beyond the exit like an anomaly inviting him to explore.

Thomas slid off the flat-bed, feeling the prickles of discomfort from a floor too cold, and cautiously stepped out into the dark foreboding corridor. The door slid shut behind him, dimming the light of the too bright room. The hallway was lit, but compared to the room, it didn't seem bright enough for his eyes. His legs pulled him along, his eyes adjusting to the dimness as he went. He reached the other end with surprising quickness, coming up close to another door, this time with a handle.

A muscle in his hand twitched. He made to reach it, apprehension marrying his movements, but the handle turned with a soft click on its own. It swung open, revealing the man from earlier. Behind him appeared to be a locker room—also obnoxiously white.

He was really starting to despise the offensive shade.

The nameless worker beckoned Thomas closer. He stepped aside without a word and gestured to the pile of clothes laying neatly on the bench.

"Get dressed," He ordered, his voice gravelly and rough. It was almost startling how harsh it sounded to Thomas. "Lunch will be served soon."

"Who are you?"

The man ignored his question. Thomas felt the rage boil in his blood.

"Who are you?" He asked again, his tone severe. "Is WICKED behind this? Where are Minho and the others? Answer me!"

The stranger turned again, but remained. He gave Thomas another look, some semblance of sympathy gleaming in his gaze.

"Come through the door when you're ready." He stated then exited the locker room through a second door Thomas didn't notice until then.

Thomas balled his hands into fists, his nails biting crescents into his flesh.

His nameless guardian led him down another corridor once he was dressed. Dawned in a simple dull grey T-shirt and jeans so faded Thomas thought it might have been blue once, he allowed himself to be shuffled along, his grey converse padding the marble white flooring with soft thumps.

Everything about the place was riddled in silence so thick, even the soft tap, tap of their footsteps or the intake of their breath seemed loud in his ears. He wanted to talk, ask questions—anything to shatter the otherworldly silence he founded himself in, but Thomas couldn't get his mouth to work. It was as though the silence had stolen his ability to speak. Maybe that was why the man sounded like he gargled nails for breakfast.

They reached the end of the hall where an elevator waited. On either side stood men dressed in black uniform, decked head to toe in armor. Their faces were obscured by their helmets, save for their lips and chins. Nothing they wore seemed to indicate who they worked for or where they came from. They had no insignias, no marks etched into their uniforms. All they had was a gun in their hands and a communication devices strapped to their belts.

They didn't acknowledged their approach or question their presence. They didn't even twitch when Thomas's escort punched in a series of numbers into the keypad built into the wall. The double doors slid open with a seamless whoosh. Thomas was ushered into the elevator, the man's hand firm on his shoulder. He pressed the button of their destination and watched as the doors slid shut, hiding away the strange hall.

He was brought to a cafeteria moments later. The soft murmur of voices a pleasant change from the impenetrable silence. The room was large, filled with people he didn't recognize, some as young as children, others old enough to be middle aged. Guards dressed in black were posted at every door, each holding a weapon, their faces obscure. They were all dressed the same: plain grey tees, faded jeans and flat shoes—all clean; some new, others worn. The only splashes of color came from the food trays they held: red, blue, yellow and green. They were scattered across the tables, no pattern indicated. Thomas supposed there wasn't one. Maybe they were just a luxury in a place where color was gone?

"Eat." Was all his guardian ordered before he left the room.

Thomas stood by the doors, overwhelmed and terribly lost.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** _The Maze Runner Trilogy (c) James Dashner_

 _I still don't know where this is going, but... here's chapter two._

 _I'll edit this chapter properly later._

* * *

 ** _Part II_**

* * *

The line for food was a short one. The workers kept everyone moving along, dumping whatever food they needed onto their trays without greetings or smiles. They weren't quite sullen, only blank. Dull. Lifeless.

Thomas was in and out before he could blink, his ruby red tray packed with a proper servings of food from each food group. He felt like a child again—at least from what he could vaguely recall from it. He didn't like it.

He wandered down the rows of tables slowly, soaking in everything he could. Most of the faces he didn't recognize, men and women all huddled together, murmuring in soft tones. Some devoured their meals with haste, others gazed at their trays in fixation. There were faces he did recognize. Young boys he had seen in the glade only in passing sat scattered, sometimes with other boys he didn't know; sometimes with girls who seemed vaguely familiar but couldn't remember where.

His heart hammered at the sight of them, unsure if he should believe his eyes.

And then, he saw him. Sitting at the edge of the table, a blue tray in his hands. Minho scooped up the mashed potatoes; he inspected the mound suspiciously but then shoved the load into his mouth like a starving child. He was alone for the moment, though he didn't seem to mind. His skin wasn't marred by the scars of his burns nor did he seem angry with the world. He looked every bit as normal as normal could be.

That, more than anything, scared Thomas.

His feet moved on autopilot. He appeared by Minho's side before he could think of anything to say. Questions about Paradise, where he had woken up, what was going on ran a mile in his head, all jumbled up for his tongue to move. When Minmho turned to look up at him, Thomas's thoughts fell silent. What on Earth could he say?

"Hey."

"H-hey…"

The runner gave him an amused smirk. "Take a seat ya shank. Its rude to stand there gawking."

Thomas slipped into the seat in front of him, food forgotten. He examined Minho closely, his body humming in anxiety.

"M-Minho…?"

Minho quirked an eyebrow. A part of Thomas felt an enormous wave of relief in knowing that at least Minho recognized his name.

"Thomas?" He shot back, still amused but curious.

"What's going on?"

"Whaddya mean 'what's going on'? Isn't it obvious? It's lunch, slinthead. The best part of the day right after breakfast and before dinner."

"No, that's not… that's not what I meant. I mean, _what's going on_? We were in Paradise. We escaped WICKED!"

Minho tilted his head, the confusion pouring from him in waves. Thomas gripped his tray tightly, panic rising. He didn't want to believe, not after everything they had been through, but the blank perplexity in Minho's eyes made Thomas's heart ache. Minho couldn't have simply forgotten everything… right?

He leaned closer to the former runner, eyes wide pleadingly.

"Minho, please tell me you remember the maze? The Glade?" At Minho's blank stare, Thomas felt the first inklings of hysteria rising like bile at the back of his throat. "Don't you remember the scorch? The crank palace? Chuck? Alby? Newt?!" He realized too late he'd been screaming at that point.

Eyes were on them but Thomas ignored them in favor of watching the guards. They were still as status against the wall, neither one of them showing signs of having heard the brunet's outburst

Minho's brows were furrowed in a way that made Thomas feel like the boy was worried for his well-being. The lack of recognition and rage—the lack of sorrow for Newt—it all made Thomas feel angry and alone. A deep sorrow gnawed at his insides.

"Thomas," Minho began, his tone placating. "You need to calm down. I don't know anything or what you're talking about but Newt is okay."

His blood froze. Disbelief seized his body.

"W-what…?"

"Thomas—"

"No! What do you mean he's okay?!" He was on his feet in an instant, his mind running in all directions. "He's _not_ okay, Minho! You don't know what happened between us. He's not okay!"

Minho rose to his feet, the same anxious confusion etched in his eyes.

"I don't know what's going on with you, Thomas, but you're acting crank crazy and that has to stop."

"I can't become a crank, Minho, I'm immune. We're both immune! Did you forget that?!" He was screaming again, but he didn't care if the guards reacted or if WICKED came barreling into the cafeteria. This whole scenario was driving him over the edge. His best friend didn't remember and now Newt was "okay"? What did that even mean?

Minho tried to grab his arms, but Thomas jerked away, too distraught to accept this Minho's comfort. He backed away wildly, the urge to bolt from the suffocating room ramming his head on. His back stumbled into another. Before he could turn around to see, strong arms wrapped themselves tenderly around his torso. Panic washed over him. He struggled against the form, screaming and kicking, but the body merely pressed tighter against him.

"Calm down Tommy! What are you panicking for?!"

For the second time that day, Thomas felt his blood freeze. Tears stung his eyes; his heart hammering wildly in his chest. The accented voice sounded so painfully familiar, it brought a heart wrenching sob from his libs. Those dreaded last words filtered into his mind like it did every night since Paradise. He refused to turn around; refused to open his eyes. Tears cascaded down his cheeks, squeezed tightly from his eyes.

It couldn't be. Oh god, it couldn't be.

They were on their knees now, Minho crouching in front of him, strong arms holding tight from behind. More people surrounded them, familiar and unfamiliar—all watching. Anxious. Curious. Through the tears, Thomas spotted Frypan by the table, Zart off to the side. He caught sight of Aris and Sonya. Harriet not far off.

He found Teresa kneeling beside him, blue eyes glassy and wide; the concern evident behind them. Seeing her so close, unscathed, dark hair long and skin still pale but healthy, brought another wave of despair and disbelief.

The arms around him held on tight, his body close. Thomas wanted nothing more than to escape those strong arms and run away from this place that couldn't exist. Yet, his legs refused to move. His arms lay limp. He allowed Newt to hold him as he sobbed for the world only _he_ seemed to remember.

* * *

 **Hope you guys find this interesting.  
I'd love to hear feedback!**


	3. Chapter 3

_Short chapter, sorry guys!_

 **Warning(s):** _Typos, probably._

* * *

 ** _Part III_**

* * *

His breakdown left him listless for the duration of lunch. Minho and Newt urged him to eat in order to regain strength, but he couldn't bring himself to move. All he could do was stare at his food and listen to the achingly familiar voices of his best friends as they chatted about one thing or another. Teresa tried to get him to eat. She scooped up the plastic spoon, dipped it into the mashed potatoes and tried to feed it to him. He merely tilted away, avoiding the spoon all together. She sighed in defeat then squeezed his shoulder in reassurance before she left to rejoin Aris and the other girls. He watched her go then, still disbelieving.

Everything about this was impossible. He had watched her die, had watched helplessly as she was crushed by the falling debris during their last minutes in WICKED. How was it possible that she was alive and well?

His gaze fell back to the blond beside him, enjoying a conversation between him, Minho and Frypan.

How was it possible that either of them were alive?

Was any of this real?

He laid a hand against Newt's bicep, pulling the blond from his conversation. He turned to Thomas inquisitively, Minho and Frypan now silent. They stared into each other's eyes in the hopes of finding some sort of truth behind the madness, but all Thomas found in those blue orbs was concern and thinly veiled regret. Regret for what, he wasn't sure.

The image of Newt begging him in their last moments flashed before his eyes. He turned away, eyes snapped shut. He wasn't sure which was a crueler fate: thinking you were the one to kill your best friend or knowing you might have to do it again.

"You should eat something," Newt implored him delicately. "We don't know what they're going to do today, you might need your strength." He nudged the tray a little closer and waited.

Thomas wasn't hungry. His break down had zapped the human out of him. All he wanted to do was go back to that pearly white room and sleep until the world made sense again. But Newt had a point, if WICKED was still in control, then he could expect more nonsensical trials and experiments. He grabbed the spoon Teresa abandoned and ate his meal in contemplative silence. He missed the way Newt's body unwound from all the tension.

* * *

They were escorted out of the cafeteria in groups of seven, separated by age and gender. Thomas didn't recognize the person that had come to claim his group, but he did see Mr. No Name gather the group Teresa, Sonya and Harriet were shuffled into. The chaperone they were given was another male, younger than No Name and a lot friendlier looking. He escorted the boys through a doorway to the right and ran down a checklist of rules Thomas didn't pay attention to.

His mind was reeling. Memories of the maze and the scorch flashed through his head in barely discernible glimpses. It couldn't have been a dream. His last moments in Paradise felt so incredibly real, he found it hard to consider it any more than a nightmarish fantasy. But something wasn't right about all this. He still couldn't remember his childhood or recall what his real name had been once. The slivers of memory that came to him in sleep were the glimpses of time he spent in WICKED with Teresa and the horrors of the world beyond the maze. If Paradise didn't exist then why couldn't he remember who he was? Surely, his memories before WICKED should have remained intact?

They stopped in a dull room laid out with chairs pressed to the wall and an unfinished puzzle on the coffee table. There were seven chairs for each person, three boxes of unopened puzzles—5,000 pieces a box—and a small pile of papers with a Sudoku grid on top. A cup of pens and pencils lay beside the pile. There were only two doors: the one they used to enter and another beside the mirror. Probably a one way. Thomas knew someone had to be watching them on the other side.

"You will wait here until your names are called. Entertainment has been provided in the meanwhile. Any disorderly conduct will be punished."

Their supervisor's eyes fell in Thomas's direction for a brief moment. He ushered the boys into the room then closed the door shut behind him, locking them in.

Minho made a beeline for the unfinished puzzle piece, followed by Frypan and a few others. Newt shifted through the stack of papers for a different puzzle while Thomas absently took a seat closest to the exit. Across from him sat Gally, his knee bouncing up and down, his eyes lost in thought. Thomas hadn't noticed him earlier, hadn't even realized the younger boy had been called into their group. Aris joined Minho and Frypan by the table, examining the pieces of the puzzle.

Newt sat next to Thomas, handing him a Sudoku sheet and a pen.

Thomas glanced at the items then back to Newt.

The blond smiled. "Thought it would make it more challenging. Everything else is easy."

He took the items from the boy's hands and used one of the clipboards left under the table as a sturdy surface. Newt situated himself comfortably, a crossword puzzle clipped into his board.

"You don't remember." It was a statement rather than a question. Newt gave Thomas a curious gaze, his head tilted slightly.

"Remember what?"

"The maze. The scorch." _The flare. Your letter._

Newt's blue eyes bore into his with intensity. He couldn't quite read them, but Thomas suspected the blond was pitying him. There was a sadness in those orbs he just couldn't place. Thomas turned away, refocusing on his Sudoku sheet. He muttered a quick never mind under his breath and set to work out the puzzle.

* * *

They weren't called in on any particular order. The two familiar yet unfamiliar boys Thomas had seen in the glade were called in First. One at a time, the boys vanished behind the door, each one gone longer than the last. They didn't return when another name was called, but the relaxed state his friends were in made Thomas think this was routine. There was probably another exit.

Frypan went in next. He was gone for what Thomas felt was thirty minutes. Then Gally went in. The nurse returned quicker this time—twenty minutes tops—and called in Minho.

The former runner gave them both a thumbs up before stepping through the door, completely at ease. The pretty nurse with the stark red hair gave the last two a gentle smile. She closed the door behind her, leaving newt and Thomas the only two in the waiting room.

Thomas turned to Newt, the blond resting his head against the wall in boredom.

"What's going on? Where's everyone going?"

"For the weekly checkup." He replied, giving the younger boy another concerned look. "Don't you remember? We get checkups at the end of every week to make sure none of us have gotten the flare or anything else that could jeopardize the cure."

"There is no cure for the flare."

Newt furrowed his brows, eyes rolling.

"Not yet, but soon. The groups gotten smaller, means they're narrowing it down. The checkups are a way of elimination. If you pass, you get to move on to the game room as a reward. If you fail…" His voice trailed off, the expression on his face distant.

Thomas wasn't fazed. He'd been through enough to understand there wasn't a guarantee he would live to see another day. Death didn't quite scare him so much anymore. Besides, he already knew he would pass whatever examination they planned to conduct behind those doors. He'd been their best candidate for the cure in the other world, after all.

His eyes took in the blond's profile, his expression melancholic. He wondered if Newt knew about his status. He wondered if, once he passed through those doors, he would ever see him again. It was startling how quickly he adjusted to Newt's presence again. Losing him a second time feel like one cruel joke.

"Stop being so nervous Tommy. You pass the exam every week. The 'munies always do."

So he did know. Newt was aware he wasn't immune to the flare. They were still stuck in the midst of hell, the sickness still rampant beyond the walls. Regardless if the maze existed or not, they were still trapped in the clutches of WICKED.

Brenda had lied. This wasn't over by a long shot.

* * *

 ** _Questions? Comments? Critics?  
Leave a review darlings!  
_** _check out my tumblr at ladyjanriel .tumblr .com for anymore maze runner thoughts or_ _potential plot bunnies :D_


	4. Chapter 4

_I'm sorry for the short chapter and the slow updates. I'm working on a lot of TMR stories and trying to wrap up Trials and Tribulations before I can completely dedicate my time to this one. It's going to be slow going, but I hope the story keeps up the curiosity!_

 **Warning(s):** _Typos, OC staff, wild Teen Wolf shout out; everything is not what it seems.  
_

* * *

 ** _Part IV_**

* * *

Newt was called in forty minutes after Minho. He gave Thomas one last look of reassurance before disappearing beyond the door. Thomas sat alone in the quiet room, the 5,000 piece puzzle still undone, his and Newt's finished Sudoku sheets on the floor. He knelt in front of the messy puzzle, inspecting the completed edges with calculating eyes. He shifted through the pile of pieces and began.

The nurse returned to the room another thirty minutes later. She stood by the door, a clipboard clutched tightly in her hands. She wrapped her knuckles against the door, watching the boy's attention. He still had a long way to go on the puzzle, but he had managed to connect the bottom half of the puzzle enough to make out the grass and the roots of a tree. She quirked an eyebrow at the sight, though as mall smile tugged at her lips.

"Right this way Thomas," She prompted, her tone motherly. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

He climbed to his feet and stepped through the door.

He'd been right about the mirror. Another woman greeted him from her desk, the view of the waiting room just beyond it. The nurse ushered him through the short hall and into a room that very much looked like your average everyday doctor's examination room. She shuffled him around quickly, gave him orders to remove his shoes; took down his weight and height. She sat him down on the examination table, ignoring the way the wax paper crinkled and bulge beneath him. She took his pressure, wrote it down into his file and then flitted out of the room before he could say a word.

The doctor came in a moment later, all friendly smiles and kind, crinkled eyes.

"Thomas, it's great to see you," he greeted.

He took a quick scan at his files then turned to the teenager, pleasant smile still plastered on his face. "We'll do everything nice and quick. That way you can enjoy the game room with your friends. Rebecca already took down your height and weight, but I'm going to need to check your vitals."

He pulled out a small flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on.

* * *

It was the most thorough examination Thomas had ever been in. Dc. McCall—as he found out—checked his vitals and reflexes. He checked his scalp and skin for strange moles; drew vials and vials of blood for nutritional testing. He checked his eyes for any sign of visual weakness; ears for hearing and made him run on a treadmill for heart strength. In all, it must have taken him close to an hour.

By the time they were done, Nurse Rebecca handed him a container of grape juice and a chocolate chip cookie. She led him down a short hall again, walking past Dr. McCall's office as he sat in his chair, an ear piece in his ear.

"Subject A2 is on his way," He heard the main mutter. He turned in his chair, showing his back to the door.

Thomas gripped the juice carton, the tattoo inked on the back of his neck flashing into mind. Would he find it there if he asked Newt or Minho to look?

Rebecca escorted him into another hall, one long and well lit. They came to a set of double doors, guards posted on either side. She punched in a series of numbers and told Thomas to enjoy before turning o her heel and stalking back down the way she came.

The double doors slid open to reveal a room filled with uproarious screaming and laughter. Music flittered out into the hall, lights of various colors flashing. It was like an arcade, filled with gaming machines and teenagers. Thomas immediately recognized Minho by the corner, playing what appeared to be some type of retro racing game with another runner from the Glade. Newt stood behind the couch they sat, laughing and urging the boys on. The entire scene felt surreal.

"Thomas!" Teresa came out of the crowd, her face split into a bright grin. She grabbed his forearm, yanking him into the room with ease. "Come on Tom! Let's have some fun!" She dragged him away from the others, losing them in the crowd of happy, boisterous adolescence.

He wasn't sure how long they had stayed in the arcade or how long it had been since lunch was served. Dinner came to them in the form of cheesy pizza and sugary drinks. Popcorn had been passed around along with chips and chocolate. Time in the game room felt short. Thomas had managed to spend time with Teresa; played a game with Zart and Winston. He managed to regroup with Newt and Minho and ate his food in their company. He was still too stunned to accept this reality and he watched them all with calculating eyes, but the joy that permeated the air had seeped into his mood, and by the end of it all, Thomas found himself laughing for the first time in a very long while.

They were escorted to the showers, dressed in a dark gray tee and baby cotton pants—just as gray—and brought to a room laid out with bunks all lined perfectly throughout the room. The boys filtered into the room, exhausted from the last few hours and happily content to sleep the night away.

Thomas was one of the last still standing. Most of the beds were taken now, save for three off to the side. Aris had already claimed the top bunk, curled under the sheets, his back turned to them. He followed Newt and Minho towards the bunks, silently observed them as Minho claimed the top, Newt the bottom. He crawled into the last available bed—the one below Aris—and curled onto his side. Newt faced him, a content smile on his face. He wished the boy goodnight and shut his eyes.

Thomas lay awake long after the lights went out and the soft, light snores of the other boys filled the air. He felt lost in the dark, unsure and scared. He was angry at the world, now that he had nothing to distract himself from the absurdness of this reality. But most importantly, he felt a well of sadness lingering deep inside of him. No one remembered what he did, nor did they seem troubled. If anything, they looked content with their circumstance and that alone was painful enough.

* * *

 _Nothing is what it seems. I hope when you guys read this, you're reading it with a detective mind. There's a lot of clues about what's happening in these last 4 chapters._

 **Comments? Critics? Questions?  
Drop a line!  
Or visit my tumblr under ladyjanriel for more Maze Runner junk!  
**


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